


The Unfinished Kiss (Or How Illya Never Ever Gets What He Wants)

by rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), the man from u.n.c.le.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, i love my polyamorous spy kids BYE, illya is cockblocked forever and always, ot3 undertones, spy missions gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:07:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars/pseuds/rescuemechinboyandshowmethestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is a brief snapshot of part of a mission. Illya and Gaby are playing a couple again (yes, I know, I know) and they get to share a hotel room. Illya is RIGHT ABOUT TO GET HIS KISS, and then Napoleon ruins everything by getting shot and showing up. Illya doesn't really blame him but he doesn't really enjoy watching Gaby stitch him up either. There are much better things that the three of them could be doing together. (Low-key ot3 undertones but it's mostly Illya/Gaby)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unfinished Kiss (Or How Illya Never Ever Gets What He Wants)

**Author's Note:**

> please be aware that this fic is about napoleon getting shot so there ARE SOME MILD MENTIONS OF BLOOD. it's not gore, but if you're uncomfortable with that, maybe don't read this. :)

Illya is really starting to hate Napoleon Solo.

It’s not that the American didn’t bother him before--his snide comments, well-fitting suits, cavalier work ethic are irritating enough in and of themselves, but this? This takes the goddamn cake.

Illya was laying flat on his back, head pillowed on a couch cushion. Gaby, blessed Gaby, beautiful Gaby, with eyes like honey and hands like magic, was astride him, with her knees locked around his hips and her lips just inches from his own.

And then fucking Napoleon Solo started knocking on the door like he was trying to bang it down.

“Roger, old man?” Solo says in that irritating, mellifluous voice of his. Illya is glad that he is at least competent enough to use the correct cover name. “Are you free for a chat?”

Above him, Gaby sits back. Illya is simultaneously grateful for the various parts of his body that her ass is touching and also deeply saddened that she is so far away from his mouth.

“So sorry,” Illya replies tersely. “Darrin, I’m indisposed right now. My wife and I are having dinner. Can it wait until tomorrow, my friend?”

Gaby frowns at him and shakes her head. She bends down and puts her lips right next to his ear. “Let him in,” she breathes. “It might be important.”

Illya groans, both in consternation and genuine despair. “Whatever you say, Anita,” he says loudly.

“Get the door, won’t you, darling?” Gaby soothes, pitching her voice just high enough for Solo to hear. She scrapes her teeth against the skin of his neck before she pulls away and slips off of his lap.

Illya shoots her a meaningful look that he hopes conveys his utter desperation before he gets up and goes to unlock the door.

On first glance, Solo appears to be perfectly fine. This irks Illya to no end. On second glance, Solo appears to look like shit--or at least as shitty as Solo is capable of looking, which isn’t really even that shitty. He has a few hairs out of place, of course, and three buttons undone instead of the usual two, but it’s his gray complexion that is the most disconcerting. The man is wearing his usual expression, an inherently smug yet serene amalgam, and yet he looks like he is fixed in rictus.

He is gripping the decorative cane that his cover carries like his life depends on it, and there is a red flower blossoming outwards against the pale silk of his shirt.

“Come on in, Darrin!” Illya extends a hand and grabs Napoleon by the arm, hauling him inside, doing his best to support the other man without looking terribly like he was holding up a corpse. “Let me fix you a drink!”

“How could I say no, Roger?” Solo smiles tightly and moves forward, his cane digging into the carpet like a jeweled trowel.

Illya waits until Solo has hobbled over the threshold and closes the door carefully.

Gaby flies up from the sofa and grabs the American, slinging his free arm over her shoulders and bearing his weight with ease. Illya is proud of her finesse, and then has to remind himself to focus on Solo instead.

“Napoleon, what on earth happened?”

“Oh, nothing,” Solo breathes. His words are the faintest husk, and dissolve into the air after they are spoken like salt into warm water. “I just ran into some technical difficulties and I got shot.”

“Technical difficulties,” Illya snorts. “Americans. You have a hundred different ways to say ‘I’m an idiot’.”

“Good God,” Solo says impatiently. “Do you really want me to admit my idiocy before you take the bullet out of me?!”

“Anita,” Illya inquires. “What do you think, darling?” His actions belie his words, of course. He supports Solo, settling the man between his legs and stripping off his jacket.

“I’m not sure, Roger,” Gaby muses. She is being quite blase, considering that she is currently staring at a very nasty bullet wound. “I do so love a good humiliation.”

Her small fingers peel back the silk shirt. It is soaked with blood, and disintegrates in her palms. She wipes her hands on her dress (Illya winces. It’s _Givenchy_ , for Christ’s sake, and he picked it out for her, so that makes it sacred fabric. His little chop shop girl never ceases to be irreverent.) and sets to work clearing the rest of the area. Napoleon cannot muffle his choked out little gasps.

“This is going to stain the carpet, Roger, dearest,” Gaby frowns.

“I’m an idiot,” Napoleon announces with a grimace. It's hard to tell what hurts more--his pride or the bullet hole.

“I know,” Gaby says.

“Is it going to hurt less now?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

“N--ah, Darrin, do you fancy being a good sport?”

“I am never anything but,” Napoleon pants. “What did you have in mind, Anita? Moving to the bedroom?”

“Not anything half as fun as that,” she pats his thigh. “Although there will be alcohol involved.”

“Count me in, then,”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” She stands up and motions to Illya to lift him.

“Why?”

“Because it’d be much harder to force you to get up if you didn’t want to,” she says, and yanks his feet in the air.

He lets out a strangled scream that dies down into a gentle whimper and contents himself to lay limply in Illya’s arms. “Anita,” he says bitterly. “Why did I ever trust you?”

“Everything that I do is for your own good,” she promises. “Roger, don’t jostle.”

“Trying not to,” the Russian assures them.

They get him into the bathroom without too much of a struggle and prop him up against the cabinets. Napoleon leans back and suppresses another distressed groan. He shifts a little. The smear of blood left against the white tile is in stark contrast. It is a deep red, like it has been congealing for a few hours, and belongs to a dead man.

“Anita,” Illya says pleasantly. “Please go get your toolkit and fix Darrin before he bleeds out in my arms.”

“Peril,” Napoleon says dryly. “I love you dearly, but I must say that your bedside manner leaves ever so much to be desired.

“Boys. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” Gaby bends, kisses Napoleon’s sweat-slick forehead, and dashes out of the room.

“Haven’t got much of a choice, have I?”

“Be patient,” Illya reminds him. “Gaby is very good with her hands.”

“No! Gaby is not taking this bullet out of me. She's a _mechanic_ , Peril. And haven’t you ever heard of cover names?” Napoleon’s voice trails off.

“Then the bullet stays in. And of course I have,” Illya says imperiously. “There are no bugs in the bathroom, Cowboy.”

“How do you know you got them all?”

They both pause for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Very good, Cowboy. Of course I got them. The soap dish,” he sniffs. “Is quite beneath my talents. Was that, how do you say it--uh--gallows humor?”

“I thought you couldn’t recognize humor if it bit you right in the ass.”

“A lot of things have bit me in the ass, Napoleon. I am getting very good at noticing the bites.”

Napoleon falls silent. Illya is content to sit stock-still, monitoring the American’s breathing.

Gaby returns, holding a leather case and a bottle of vodka.

“Ooh! Finally something to numb the pain,” Napoleon says melodramatically, and reaches for the bottle.

“First of all, what about your ass, Illya? Second, no, Napoleon. This is for me.”

“Should you really be drinking when you’re about to--”

Gaby cuts him off by biting off the wax seal on the vodka and downing a quarter of it in one go. Illya and Napoleon just stare at her.

“Much better,” she says. She wipes under her eyes and sets the bottle down on the counter. Gaby carefully washes her hands in the sink and dries them with a feather soft towel. She pries open the leather case. Its insides are lined with rows and rows of glistening metal tools, puffs of cotton balls, and little packaged alcohol wipes. She removes a pair of pliers and a scalpel that shines in the light with a bright hyaline glimmer. She examines it carefully, and blows off an invisible speck of dust.

Illya is a good judge of metal tools. Gaby’s are well up to KGB standards.

Napoleon groans again. “Peril?”

“Yes, Cowboy?”

“I think you ought to hand me some of that vodka now, old sport.”

Illya does not argue and hands him the vodka. It will be a small consolation in a few moments.

“Are we certain that the mechanic should be working on a human?”

“Illya is great at removing bullets under pressure,” Gaby says. “He has a very talented mouth. Unfortunately, his method for removing bullets also _involves his mouth_ , which is incredibly painful and twice as unsanitary. It’s also really only good under duress. My skills are transferable, lucky for you, darling.”

“You have to be mostly drunk by now,” Napoleon argues. “I don’t feel safe.”

“Cowboy, you have a bullet lodged in your side. Were you feeling warm and toasty before that?” Illya says, exasperated.

“You make a fair point, as always, Peril,” Napoleon resituates himself.

“Plus, the longer you dither about this, the faster you’ll bleed out!” Gaby exclaims brightly, wiggling her scalpel.

“You’re an excellent conversational partner, Gaby, and I can’t say I would mind dying while I could listen to your dulcet tones, but you’re right. Let’s get this over with.”

“I’m always right. You’re going to have to give me a moment--I want to make sure the floor and the towels are clean.”

“Do we really have time for household chores?”

“I don’t know, Solo, do you have time for gangrene? What about sepsis? We’re in a bathroom. This isn’t sanitary at all.”

“I don’t think I’m going to instantly get gangrene from being in the bathroom,” Solo complains. “I have a better chance of bleeding out right now.”

“We’re doing this my way. That is what you tacitly agreed to when you got shot and expected me to fix you. And plus, the bullet could be putting pressure on blood vessels, which would stop you from bleeding out, so it could just be about to get a lot worse."

"I thought you said I was going to bleed out already, not that removing the bullet would make it worse!"

"Just try not to think about it and ignore everything I say. Illya, lighter, please,”

“What in God’s name do you need a lighter for?” Napoleon yelps.

“The cigarette that I’m about to smoke,” Gaby explains. “It’s been a while since I’ve done anything involving flesh. And then to sterilize all the different things  I am going to stick in your side.”

“God, Teller, you sure know how to sweet-talk a fellow,” Napoleon says. He lets his head fall back to rest firmly against Illya’s shoulder. “Peril, my suit pocket. Inner corner, left side.”

Illya is confused, but he digs around in the suit anyway. He extricates a silver cigarette case with an artfully messy swirl of initials engraved it and presses the catch to open it. Two rows of cigarettes line the inside, each evenly laying inside like toy soldiers standing to attention.

“Have one of mine,” Napoleon insists. “And for fuck’s sake, get started,”

“Thank you,” Gaby smiles and busies herself laying out tools. Illya pulls out a cigarette and reaches up to stick it between her lips. She bends her head and keeps perfectly still when he pulls out a lighter and ignites it.

Acrid smoke fills the room. Gaby sits down and and takes a bowl out from the case. “Illya, be a dear and give me that vodka.”

Illya hands her the half-empty bottle.

She grips it in her free hand and takes a sip from it. The liquid courses around her cigarette, dampening the white paper to a dove gray, but she does not spill a single drop.

“I am about to hurt you a lot, and you have to promise not to hate me when I’m done,” she requests.

“I trust you,” Napoleon nods. “At least, I do right now.” She grabs his shoulder and yanks him down so that his head is pillowed on Illya’s lap and the lacerations on his bare skin are in contact with the towel on the floor. Napoleon’s back arches, and he cries out brokenly. “Hmm. That wasn’t so bad. I don’t hate you.”

Then she upends the bottle of vodka over Napoleon’s side and douses the wound in the clear liquid.

He screams for real this time, and filmy black edges border his vision. “Okay, fuck, maybe I hate you a little bit now.”

“I _am_  sorry, darling,”

“Give me an honest estimate, Madame Doctor,” Napoleon is trying his best to be brave about this. It isn’t working so well, but Illya has to credit him for keeping up the facade. “How long is this going to take, and am I going to...be okay?”

“All you have to be worried about is your organs, Cowboy,” Illya says. Napoleon doesn’t really feel comforted by this at all.

“Peril,” he swallows. Gaby is wiping around the gash carefully. “How does it look?”

“Hard to say,” Illya admits. “I have done this many times. This is not the worst thing I have ever seen.”

“You’ve taken out bullets many times? Why aren’t you doing this?”

“You misunderstand, Cowboy. I mean I have shot people many times. Whoever did this to you is not half as good as me.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Napoleon says.

“Illya,” Gaby looks up. She has a pair of forceps gripped tight in her hands; despite the amount of alcohol she just imbibed, her fingers are perfectly steady. “Should I?”

“Napoleon, none of this is as bad as it sounds,” the Russian says gently.

“Oh, Jesus,” Napoleon repeats.

“Is a shallow wound,” Illya says. He furrows his brow. “If we are speaking of statistics, there is probably a low chance that the bullet is stopping up a blood vessel. I think he will be fine if you are gentle. Then again, life is a roulette. Could be the only thing stopping him from dying, could be the only thing stopping him from living. Go with your gut, Gaby.”

“This is _my_ gut we are talking about,” Napoleon says uncomfortably. Illya shushes him. Gaby sits there, poised over his abdomen with the forceps in hand. She looks incredibly small and so young with her wide eyes examining the gore.

“It seems safer to leave it in,” Napoleon protests.

“Bleeding is mostly stopped,” Illya points out.

“Yes,” she muses. “It would be safer to leave it in.”

“Thank God,” Napoleon sighs.

She pulls a cloth from the case and hands it to Illya. “Wipe his forehead off.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, it was supposed to distract you from this.” She grips the forceps tightly and pulls with a wet squelching noise, tugging the bullet to the surface.

Napoleon blacks out.

-o-

“Napoleon,” Illya says sharply.

“Peril, I do believe this is the first and last time I shall ever say this to you, but please fuck off.”

Illya chuckles. “He is fine, Gaby. Continue.”

“I never stopped,” She wipes her hand on the towel, leaving a red streak. “I just told you I did to make you feel better. We’re nearly there, Napoleon.”

“Oh, good,” he exhales shakily. “Is the worst nearly over?”

“Not quite, but you will be fine.”

“Want me to tell you a joke to make you feel better?” Illya asks.

“God, no! Don’t, Illya. Your Russian jokes are the worst. Peril, I will kill you before this bullet kills me if you tell me any jokes.”

“Illya’s jokes are hilarious,” Gaby corrects him. “Illya, tell Napoleon a joke.”

“You only like his jokes because you are in love with him! His jokes are awful.”

“They _are_ funny, _and_ I am in love with him. The two things are not connected.”

“Ready, Solo?”

“No, _noooo_ , Peril, God, I hate you,”

“What do you do when vodka interferes with job?”

“Damn it, Peril.”

“Get off job, obviously,”

Gaby trills out a laugh. The sweet sound distracts Napoleon for a brief moment, which is all she needs to pull the bullet right to the edge of the hole. He shrieks and closes his eyes in anguish.

“Fuck, Gaby,”

“Do not fuck Gaby,” Illya says. “She is still fixing you.”

“Damn it, Peril,” Napoleon huffs. Each word is clear and emphasized with utmost irritation.

“Almost there, Napoleon. Breathe. Illya, tell him another joke.”

“Gaby, stop with the jokes!”

“They distract you! Pain cancels pain. This is science.”

“I thought you loved my jokes, дорогая,” Illya laughs.

“I _do_ love them, darling, just as much as I love you,” She starts daubing away at the blood on his side. “Cowboy here just doesn’t understand the caliber of your humor.”

“What is exchange of opinion?”

“I refuse to listen to this.”

“Is when you walk into a room with your opinion and come out with your superior’s.”

“DAMN IT, PERIL,”

Gaby gets the traction she needs, and liberates the bullet. She drops it into the bowl with a clink and sops up the new rivulets of blood streaming down Napoleon’s skin.

Tears flow from the corners of his clear blue eyes unbidden, and his grip on Illya’s hand tightens. Illya wipes the American’s forehead again, far gentler this time.

She busies herself with cleaning around the wound again, and then unfolds a dressing packet from the case. She withdraws damp folds of cloth and carefully arranges it over the injury, being as gently as possible. Illya corrects her from time to time, and Napoleon drifts in and out of full awareness, trying to keep a handle on the pain.

“Illya,”

“Yes, Gaby?”

“Vodka.” She bats away his hand when he holds it out to her. “Napoleon needs it.”

“I thought you were almost done!”

“I am done with bullet removal,” she explains. “But that cut on your arm? The stitching is just getting started.”

“Oh, God,”

“Is okay,” Illya comforts. “I have more jokes.”

-o-

“Jesus, Gaby,”

“If it makes you feel any better, I am completely drunk. I do my best work completely drunk.”

“You also tend to fall asleep when you’re completely drunk,” Illya reminds her.

“One botched dancing lesson, and you’re judged for it for all eternity,” Gaby glares at him. “Sit up, Napoleon.” She snips the dark thread. “You are fixed, courtesy of one Gaby Teller.”

“Thank God,” Napoleon scrambles to a semi-upright position. “Illya, take me to bed.”

“You’re not in the best condition for it, but if you insist--”

“NO MORE JOKES OR SARCASM OR HUMOR OF ANY KIND,” Napoleon yells. “ENOUGH.”

“I think the one about the parrot really got to him,” Illya smirks. He gathers Napoleon up in his arms and takes him out of the bathroom.

Gaby stays behind to pack up her tools and wipe the blood off of the floor.

-o-

Napoleon’s injuries all heal well. He has two attentive nurses to change his dressings and help him keep clean. The only problem is that he keeps pulling his stitches out when he tries to run from Illya’s jokes.


End file.
